Inert

Good Evening, 
Today's poem is both observational and confessional. The very nature of the poem led me to omit any punctuation. For me it adds to the flow of the stanza. 
There are many things a woman will do in a day. Often to the detriment of her own health. Does that make her a martyr or misguided? I often ponder this thought and as such this poem bloomed in my mind and I dedicate it to all the mothers out there… keep giving. :)

Inert

A wave of tiredness covers her skin

A yawning ache rising deep from within

A darkened eye blinks back sleeps onset

A dream arrives so the dreamer forgets

A stolen moment where chaos now reins

A frozen pause while blood surges in veins

A granule taken from the sands of time

A mark in that sand as she falls at her line

A calmness envelopes a face hiding woe

A peaceful existence in a life to and fro

A beckoning slumber at sleeps sweet door

A second before she is woken once more

By Helen Stallard

May 31, 2014

Precious Little Bundle

Good Evening, 
You may have picked up from my Twitter feed that I have recently become a Grand-Mum again :) 
This is why I have been absent from The Poetry Bank. I was there when my little precious came into this world and I wrote the following poem to honour it. 

Precious Little Bundle

A unique little life, at what point did it start 

When did it begin, the beating of her heart?

Dark minute lashes frame the bluest eyes,

As pink bow like lips shape her little sighs.

Her trust in me implicit, in my cradled arms,

Protected within them, safe from any harm.

Resting now - after her long entry to this world.

My precious angelic bundle, Grand-Mums little girl.

By Helen Stallard

May 30, 2014

You and Me

Hello and Welcome, 
It is no secret that I have a homosexual son, of whom I am extremely proud… it is also no secret, (as my poetry portrays) that I am alternative. So I wrote today's poem with that in mind. I don't give two hoots who you are, how much you earn, what colour you are, where you came from, who you choose to love or hate. If you are nice to me then it will be reciprocated. No need to throw stones, at others, when you too live in a glass house. I have lived in one for years ;) 


You and Me

What makes me 'ME and makes you 'YOU',
The way we are or the things that we do?

From Times beginning - to it's very end,
It's seemed like us, me or you, verses them!

Tribe upon tribe over land they'd fight, 
Making them wrong or making them right?

When is one human so above the others?
Who decides if we're sisters or bothers?

United we stand and divided we'll fall, 
Now fight for equality, stand true and tall. 

There will always be some to oppress one of 'US'.
If "WE' are different then they'll make a fuss.

From our race, sex or preference, they will suppress,
There will always be morons who choose to protest.

So lets be united and in one voice shout aloud,
'WE' are all different and that makes us proud.

By Helen Stallard
March 23, 2014

Volume-less

Good Evening, 
My poem today is how I see my poetical works when I am past.  

Volume-less

Hanging on to all that is.

Grasping at reality,

But by a thread. 

Taking stock of nothing.

Volume-less!

No shadows to chase.

I cast non now. 

Beyond where I stagnate.

No memory for me,

Fleeting nothings in time.

No ripples cast,

Motionless.

Generations from recognition.

Centuries of centuries... 

My written word; defining me.

What I was?

Who I am?

The people's voice.

I am of the wind,

But a whisper now read.

My own memory. 

By Helen Stallard

March 22, 2014

Blindly Subjective

Good Evening, 
My second poem of the day! I have been angered into writing this and I hope and as a confessional poet, I have struggled with this poem and the feelings it has invoked from deep within. Sometimes what one feels may be good news... is not necessarily news at all. 

Blindly Subjective

How did it feel when you twisted that knife,

Are you that informed on me and my life? 

Were you there when my tears flowed? 

Now you share what you think you know!

Politely delivered as one sister to another,

Like you know - cause you too are a mother. 

Look in the mirror before casting that stone,

As you enlighten me on my life and my home.

Look at you and your life with your sons,

Before informing me and what mine has done.

How do you know what mine really feels,

As you sit at your key pad; making me reel.

One passing visit and your that informed,

Of my relationships all tattered and torn?

My message to you as I sit at my keys,

Is back off... cause you don’t really know me. 

By Helen Stallard

March 21, 2014

I Resent You

Good Morning, 
The following poem is not to be misunderstood. I am not a feminist spouting hate. Here I am showing jealousy at the things I feel my man has much easier than I. Within that feeling of jealousy I have also felt resentment. Not because he has all of the following, but because not matter how hard I try… I cannot. Simply because I am woman and he is man.

I Resent You

Your freedom and soundness of mind

That supportiveness within your kind

Whoosh... passing humour lost on me 

The endless hours where you are free

Pleasures you find cupped in your hand

Your ego when you make a stand

How easily you fall to sleep

Your temper that you always keep

The ease with which you forget

That way you never show regret

The way you just don’t give a damn

As I am woman and you are man. 

By Helen Stallard

March 21, 2014

But An Echo

Good Afternoon All, 

The following poem I wrote this afternoon and while doing so someone who I have never met sprang into my mind. We have conversed, but never had the pleasure of meeting. 

My mind takes me places I have no idea where until the journey begins. I know this Echo well and hope you can relate.

But An Echo

My voice is but an echo, this sound that did begin.

A silent voice that wants to scream,

From deep beneath cold skin. 

My voice is but an echo, that someone has to hear.

Sent out on stormy Northern Winds,

That is seeking for an ear.

My voice is but and echo, no one knows where it will fall.

A heart filled voice is searching,

Who will answer her echoed call. 

By Helen Stallard

March 20, 2014